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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30019872">All This Bad Blood</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmybarricade/pseuds/getoffmybarricade'>getoffmybarricade</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>One Song Glory [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A little, Angst, Barricades, Combeferre &amp; Enjolras Platonic Life Partners, Courfeyrac Being an Idiot, Cynic Grantaire, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Flashbacks, Grantaire being Grantaire, M/M, Maybe fluff, Modern AU, Parent Valjean, Past life, Reincarnation, Valjean is everybody’s parent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:28:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,833</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30019872</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmybarricade/pseuds/getoffmybarricade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When the abc need a new place to hold their meetings, Enjolras stumbles across The Musain. But from the very first second, he’s sure he knows this cafe despite never setting foot in it before.</p><p>And then he finds the painting.</p><p>The one that is somehow, inexplicably of himself and his friends centuries ago, and during a revolutionary period.</p><p>But it can’t be them, right? </p><p>That isn’t possible.</p><p>But it really doesn’t help that the very same group is also named ‘Les Amis de L’ABC.’</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Feuilly/Jean Prouvaire, Joly/Bossuet Laigle, Marius Pontmercy/Éponine Thénardier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>One Song Glory [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2208339</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>All This Bad Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>‘But if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all? And if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like you’ve been here before?’</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For some reason, Enjolras has always disliked the month of June. He has no real reasoning for it, no memory of any particularly bad events happening during then, but he does not like it. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And he can’t quite explain it. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sometimes he thinks he can. Sometimes he wakes up in the night and there’s a strange, sort of constricting feeling in his chest. It fills him with dread and fear and he can almost say he is completely sure that </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">something </span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">must have happened. Why else would he wake on the same night every year, June 6th, trembling where he lays? And on those nights he can feel the terror gripping him, gnawing it’s way into his heart and settling there, but he doesn’t know </span>
  <span class="s2"><em>why</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t like not knowing. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And it seems to be that it is only on that one night that it even feels real. The next morning it feels more like a dream, a nightmare. He would say that perhaps he is imagining it, because afterwards the fear has always subsided completely and the only remainder left of it is when it appears again the next year. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But he knows it’s real, he knows this. He just decided a long time ago that it’s much easier to pretend. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s the 6th of June today, and Enjolras knows what’s coming. He hasn’t ever spoken to Combeferre or Courfeyrac about it and though he thinks that maybe he should, he doesn’t. Its not even as if he thinks they might laugh at him; if he told them it was serious then he knows they’d listen. But still...it’s stupid and childish and if it bothers him that badly he should just stay awake the whole night to avoid it. But he doesn’t. So it can’t be that bad, right? He must be being dramatic. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He knows that tonight will prove him wrong. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But whatever. He can’t worry about that now. He has bigger issues. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For one, he’s supposed to be trying to find a new place for the abc to hold their meetings. They were perfectly happy down the road at the Corninth until a new manager took over and decided he no longer wanted a group of angry people scheming in his back room. Which, fair, Enjolras can understand. But they never bothered anyone. He assumes it has more to do with the fact that the guy is probably terrified that the police are going to come calling round after a protest and demand that he be arrested with them. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And his other problem is that he’s </span>
  <span class="s2"><em>freezing</em>. </span>
  <span class="s1">It’s supposed to be June and he hates the cold more than anything else and yet somehow, despite the promising weather forecast, it has decided to bring that awful kind of wind. The kind that bites at skin and makes his eyes water, getting through the gaps of his jumper and making his fingers all stiffen up around his now-cold coffee cup. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Enjolras shivers and pulls his shoulders up to try and shield the back of his neck from the cold. His hair has fallen out of its makeshift bun and is now whipping him quite painfully in the face, half blocking his vision. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As he hurried down the cobbled streets he’s so familiar with, he comes to a halt. There’s a cafe stood at the end of the road that he’s never been inside. As much as he’d love to, he doesn’t have much time to go coffee shop testing, so it’s not too much of a surprise for him to bump into a place somewhat unfamiliar. It looks old and it’s made of some ancient wood and honestly, the chances are that the people inside might just not know who he is. Well, it won’t last for long but he’s hoping they’ll agree to let him at least take shelter inside for a while. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s slightly crooked somehow, and Enjolras tilts his head to the side to try and figure out why it looks like that. Like he said, he can tell it’s old but it doesn’t seem worn out. The windows aren’t cracked or even particularly thin - bordered with mahogany and small, yellow flowers sit in flowerpots on the window sill. They look as if they’re going to be blown off of the edge at any given moment, but hey, at least they’re pretty. There’s a wooden sign nailed over the doorway that reads: </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">The Musain </span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">in slightly peeing paint and from under the door he can see a soft light. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He pulls his coat tighter around himself, </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He pushes it open, a little bell tinkling as he does so, and his eyes try and take in everything at once. The tables and chairs are odd and mismatched, primarily made out of wood, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills his nostrils. Soft, yellow lights hang from the ceiling between the wooden beams and strangely aren’t the only light source. There are old candle brackets fixed into the walls and even a few smaller candles placed on some of the tables that are further away from the lights. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s practically empty now and the young woman behind the counter looks up as he enters. She’s very pretty, with one of those friendly looking faces; dark eyes and a soft, brown-lipsticked smile. She has pale hair that is bunched messily up with a white, bandana-style tie, a pair of circular glasses resting on her head, and a silver nose stud. She gives him a small but warm smile and he shuffles towards, a strange feeling in his chest that tells him something about where he is familiar. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Maybe he’s been here when he was child - it’s certainly old enough. Or, then again, maybe that’s just the style of the place. Courfeyrac repeatedly reminds him that he has no taste in interior design. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey,” she says as he approaches, already pulling out a few porcelain mugs from underneath the counter. He notices that her nails are painted into sunflowers. Enjolras smiles back, reaching into his bag to draw out a handful of flyers with the name, ‘</span>
  <span class="s2"><em>Les Amis de L’ABC</em>,’ </span>
  <span class="s1">printed in small, red writing. Grantaire designed them some time back and they’re really quite pretty. He wonders if he ever told him that...</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s pulled out of his thoughts as the woman speaks again, this time the mugs thumping down on the wooden counter. “What would you like?” she asks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, no thank you.” Enjolras says hurriedly. He puts the flyers down on the counter and turns them so that they’re facing her instead. “I was just wondering if I’d be able to hold a sort of meeting here once a week. It’s, um, it’s fine if not. Most places aren’t too happy with having us there, if you know what I mean?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and rests his hand on the counter when all of a sudden he’s hit with a wave of nausea. There’s a ringing in his ears and he can taste blood in his mouth; its strong, metallic scent filling his nostrils. He swears he can hear what he thinks are gunshots, bouncing off the walls and tearing the wood apart, and when he looks round he sees that the girl has gone. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Screaming, there’s so much screaming. In his ears, in his head, the people around him that are staggering under the pain of bullet wounds and blood loss. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The entire room is torn apart; tables and chairs knocked over with broken legs and tops, paintings ripped from the walls and laying discarded on the floor. There’s blood everywhere; it’s above him, below him, even on him and the smoke is choking him, making it hard to breath. He wants to cry out, to run, but he’s frozen to the spot and there’s bullets flying so narrowly past him that he’s surprised he hasn’t been hit yet. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then he blinks. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The girl hasn’t gone - she’s right there. And the room...it isn’t torn apart, there’s no blood. She hasn’t even noticed anything is wrong and is still speaking, but he isn’t listening. She looks up at him suddenly and frowns, almost concerned. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“In the least rudest way possible, are you okay?” she asks carefully, raising an eyebrow. It doesn’t seem condescending, which he feared it might, but she seems genuinely worried. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I-yeah. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Could you, ah, could you repeat that? Please?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She stares at him in a vaguely concerned way. When he doesn’t reply, she frowns but nods, shaking her head a little as if she’s clearing it of their strange interaction. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It should be fine. About the meetings thing. My father will probably be happy about it, even. What did you say you were called again?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” he says, slightly out of it. He takes a moment to gather himself, shaking the image of the room so inexplicably torn apart from his mind, and swallows. “It’s Enjolras.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The girl studies him for a second and then chuckles to herself, scribbling down his name on a sticky note and placing it on the wall behind her. She looks up again, her lips twitching upwards, and Enjolras just sort of stares at her blankly, unsure on how he should be reacting. He didn’t pronounce his own name wrong, did he? He’s done that before. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, I know who you are. You’re being arrested in the middle of Paris at least once every few months, it’s pretty hard to miss. I meant the name of your group.” she grins, leaning back a little so that elbow rests on the old coffee machine next to her. Enjolras feels himself turn a deep shade of red and curses himself internally, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, right. Of course,” he clears his throat, “it’s ‘Les Amis de L’ABC’.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, I like that one. It’s-“ she breaks off suddenly, mid-sentence, and stares at him with wide eyes, her mouth hanging open a little. Enjolras is tempted to touch a hand to his face to check for any remainders of glitter or some strange thing Courfeyrac might have put on him when he wasn’t paying attention. The girl’s eyes slide to the side a little, just for a split second, as if she’s not quite able to process what he’s said, and then she suddenly lets out a little bubble of laughter, grinning to herself. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Enjolras is steadily becoming more confused by the second, wondering if there’s perhaps a hidden meaning behind the title that he hadn’t thought of. She seems to sense that he isn’t getting it and leans forwards again on the counter, looking at him in confusion. He feels like he’s definitely missed a joke. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You do know where you are, don’t you?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Enjolras nods hesitantly, peering over his shoulder a little to be absolutely sure what the sign reads. His eyes confirm what he already knows but don’t give anything away on what it is that he’s supposedly missing. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The Musain...?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shit.”the girl says under her breath, amusement clear in her voice. She bites down on her lip slightly, disbelief etched onto her face, and grins up at him. “Okay, come with me.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Only mildly concerned, Enjolras follows her through the maze of tables and chairs and towards a door that’s almost hidden behind a curtain that falls over part of the back wall. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know, I never caught your name.” he says thoughtfully, as he follows her. She turns her head over her shoulder and grins, saying absolutely nothing. Enjolras frowns. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“For the record, I’m not above just guessing every name I can think of until I get it right.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She rolls her eyes but turns around to face him, pulling the curtain to the side. It reveals the rest of the dark, oak door with faded gold lettering that he can’t make out. The handle is made of brass, the same as knocker on it, and it looks, well...old. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you?” he says uncertainly, offering a hesitant smile. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I love looking at closed doors, don’t you?” she says slowly, as if he’s stupid. He’s sure acting it, he can give her that. As he pushes it open gently, he hears her say something. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What was that?” he asks, turning his head as the door clicks open. She smiles. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I said, my name is Cosette.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cosette reaches over his shoulder to push open the door, letting it swing forwards with a sort of rusty creak. There’s a small, circular table placed in the centre of the room that holds nothing but a single candle and behind it on the wall hangs a large painting of a group of men huddled around a very similar-looking table to the one he sees. In fact, he’s certain the painting depicts the exact room he is stood in. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The room itself behind isn’t very big at all - perhaps the size of a regular bedroom - and when he steps inside it feels familiar in a strange way. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The same kind of familiar he felt just a few minutes ago. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The same kind of familiar that he feels every night on June 6th. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The kind that pierces his heart and tugs at his mind because he </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">knows </span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">it. Somehow it’s all so familiar and yet a stranger to him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The feeling of the floorboards beneath his feet, the chill that goes up his spine as he peers outside of the framed window...he knows it all. He knows the way the light shines onto only half of the table during the afternoon sun, the smell of old wood from the walls around him. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He swallows and turns to Cosette, who is looking at him with a strange expression on her face. It’s almost like...pity. She points up past him, towards the painting, and he moves a little closer. He’s no expect on art - that’s more Grantaire or Feuilly’s area - but he can tell from the bumps on the canvas and the almost 3D texture of it that it’s oil paint. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His eyes scan the picture eagerly, absorbing every little detail. He can’t help it, but his eyes land on the little figure at the top end of the table. He looks...not angry, per say...but maybe passionate? The candle light flickers over his face, brightening his blue eyes, and his long hair catches on it too. He wears red, dark red, and again he is no expert on clothing but he can guess that it shows some period from around the eighteenth or nineteenth century. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But that’s not what’s bothering him. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And it’s not about familiarity this time. Or rather, it is, but it’s more personal. More intimate. Because the figure with the blonde hair and the angry eyes looks far too much like- </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“-It’s you. Right there. That’s you.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Enjolras doesn’t look at Cosette as she speaks. Instead he continues to analyse the painting with such intensity he wouldn’t be surprised if it burst into flames. Eventually he steps back, tugging on the ends of his hair, and looks to his left. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It can’t be me. It’s not possible.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cosette seems to consider this, her dark eyes narrowed, and she seems to come to the same conclusion as he has. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” she says, letting out a low whistle, “it looks damn well like you.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And that he can agree with. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Who were they?” he asks after a moment of silence. He looks up, finding Cosette’s eyes trained upon him, and somehow he already knows the answer he’s going to get. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Les Amis de L’ABC.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But even so, nothing could have prepared him for this and he lets out a splutter of disbelief, spinning on his heel to stare at the painting again that so scarily looks like him. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Why, he wants to scream. Why, why, why? </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And they were- wait, what did they do?” he says after a minute, his eyes still fixed on the painting. He continues to stare as Cosette speaks, and he notices that her voice has dropped. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They were a revolutionary group from the early 1830’s,” and he genuinely cannot believe this, “but when the time came for them to rebel, the people around didn’t stand with them. They were outnumbered by the thousands.” Cosette pauses, almost as if she’s unsure if she should say what’s next. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She doesn’t need to. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He knows what’s coming. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And by the time the morning crept around it had rained, apparently, soaking through the barricade and into the gunpowder they had stored. The ammunition was ruined, their numbers almost halved. They were young but were no match. They-“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“-Died.” Enjolras finishes, closing his eyes briefly. He thinks back to every morning he has looked in the mirror, staring up at eight birthmarks so carelessly dotting his chest. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s often wondered why they spooked him out so badly. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They died, didn’t they? June the 6th?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cosette stares at him with wide eyes, her lips parted a little in confusion. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How do you know that?” she asks slowly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have no idea.” Enjolras replies. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Which, strictly speaking, is technically true. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">why </span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">he knows this, specifically anyway, but he’s got a feeling the fact that he wakes up on the same night every year full of dead and grief definitely - somehow, he doesn’t know that one yet - links in with the fact that he‘s just learnt there’s a painting of a historical </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">revolutionary group</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">, the leader of which looking suspiciously like him, and has the </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">same name </span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">as his own group does now. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now, be realistic, he would say. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But honestly what else can he gather from this. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Obviously it </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">him - he’s stood right here, staring at it now. He physically can’t be in two places at once and off of the top of his head he can’t particularly remember a period where he went back in time...</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So, that really only leaves two options; either this whole thing is some weird coincidence or the weird reincarnation theory that Jehan keeps talking about is potentially true. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If I ask you right now, Enjolras,” Cosette begins, walking up behind him. She places a slightly shaking hand on his shoulder and he turns his head a little to look at her, “where you honestly think they died...would you know the answer?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he says slowly, shaking his head, “no I don’t-“</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And there it is. So obviously staring at him. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he walked through the front door he immediately recognised the place; it felt like somewhere he’d stepped in a long time ago, something he’d maybe visited as a child. And then he’d seen - oh god, he’s fucking </span>
  <span class="s2"><em>seen</em> - </span>
  <span class="s1">what the Musain looked like all torn up. Bullets, gunpowder, blood...</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And it can’t be a coincidence, can it? That the very place that has been the meeting cafe of a group so similar to his own in the past has also seen the remains of a revolution? </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Their </span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">revolution. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m standing right where they died, aren’t I?” he whispers, a chill creeping up his spine. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, technically, they died sort of...everywhere...” Cosette says hesitantly, her face contorting into a weird grimace,gesturing with her hands, “...and the leader died up there, above this room. But yes. The revolution was here.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s...” he searches for the right words, unable to grasp much of an understanding on the situation. “...something.” he settles on. Cosette nods thoughtfully, her eyes flitting around the room. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It is, isn’t it?”<br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <hr/>
</blockquote><p class="p1"><span class="s1"></span><br/>
<br/>
“Okay, Enj, slow down. Can you just-can you just speak slower, okay?” Combeferre says calmly, much unlike Enjolras’s own demeanour. </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Enjolras swallows, sighing in frustration down the phone. He’s still stood in the back room of the Musain, staring intently at that painting, and currently trying to speak as fast as humanly possible. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Start again.” Combeferre says, ignoring his pointed sigh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve already told you twice.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Courfeyrac talked at me relentlessly the first time and then you spoke so quickly the next I didn’t catch a word of it.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sighs again, running a hand through his hair in frustration.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can you just come here?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a pause down the other end of the line and then he hears Combeferre’s amused chuckle. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Enjolras-“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“-Please?” he interrupts, “I really need your help.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you let me finish?” Ferre cackles - yes, honest to god </span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">cackle</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"><em>s</em>, and Enjolras really thinks that’s quite inappropriate for his current situation- “I don’t know where you are.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Enjolras blinks. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You didn’t tell me.” Combeferre says flatly - or, well, what would be ‘flatly’ for anyone else, but Enjolras knows Ferre too well to not translate it as him simply trying to keep a straight face on the other end of the phone. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I didn’t - oh.” he says, realising halfway through that as irritatingly as ever, the other man is right. “Well, I’m at the Musain.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What, that old one?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t tell me that’s where you’re expecting us to hold our meetings, Enjolras.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He screws his face up in anticipation, weighing out his words. After a second he lets out a little huff and subconsciously rolls his eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes and no.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He can practically feel Combeferre internally questioning his life choices even over the phone. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right, what does that mean?” he says defeatedly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, yes as in it’s an ideal place for us to do that, but no as in there’s a potential...can I say loophole? Does loophole work?” He scratches the back of his neck thoughtfully, wracking his brain for the right choice of word. He doesn’t find it. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ferre?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A loophole is an ambiguity or inadequacy in the law or a set of rules.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, alright fucking Wikipedia. Not loophole then.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Enjolras-“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“-Whatever.” he interrupts hurriedly, waving his hands about in the air. “It’s irrelevant, will you just get here as fast as possible?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a moment of silence in which Enjolras internally curses Combeferre and his inability to make a single decision. He glares at his phone and hopes the other can feel his disapproval. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Am I bringing Courf?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He honestly couldn’t care less. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Will that slow you down?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, what do you think?” Combeferre says, as if it’s an obvious question. Because honestly, it isn’t. Courfeyrac is hopelessly unpredictable; he could be in Combeferre’s house right now but also just as easily be in fucking Australia on the other side of the world. And he’d appreciate it if Combeferre didn’t take a good two days to get him and come home before meeting him here at the Musain. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he doesn’t reply, he’s met with Combeferre’s heavily sarcasm induced voice, “Considerably so, yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t care what you do, just please hurry up!” Enjolras says frustratedly, slapping a hand over his eyes and ending the call hastily. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He huffs to himself and turns back with folded arms to stare at the painting hanging on the wall. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And he’s said it before: he really hates June the 6th. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okayyyyy, so<br/>If you hadn’t guessed, this fic is based off of Bastille’s album, ‘All This Bad Blood.’ </p><p>I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy writing this one so if you like it so far, please let me know!!<br/>Thank you so much for reading<br/>:))</p></blockquote></div></div>
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